Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Kelli London, aka Kells, has been writing since she was six years old. She’s pro anything that uplifts girls (ok, boys too), is a mentor for A Dream Inc. (a non-profit organization for teens), and creator of Kelli Girls’ Pearls—gems for a girl to live by: Positive Affirmations & Daily Quotes. She lives in The Moment, is a social butterfly (social networking and newsletter butterfly too), has a passion for education, reading, writing, running, chocolate, life and, of course, her readers.

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Reality Check

By KELLI LONDON

DAFINA KTEEN BOOKS

Copyright © 2013 Kelli London
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-7582-8697-0

Chapter One

Attitudes were flaring, and the pressure was on. Time was ticking, and every minute cost thousands of dollars. "Move it! Move it! We're behind schedule, people!" a production assistant boomed, her hand waving to and fro. Costumers shuttled rolling wardrobes across the floor. Cameramen yelled, some cursing. Extras huddled together, inching forward toward the set, though they'd been told not to. Charly stood to the side, watching and holding Marlow. It was a mess. A certifiable yet beautiful disaster was unfolding in front of her, but she didn't care. Mr. Day hadn't told on her weeks ago like he'd threatened to. He hadn't said one word to her father. Instead, today he'd sent a car to retrieve her and Marlow so she could familiarize herself with the set and production crew, and so Marlow could get used to all the busyness. He had promised her "big things," so she knew it was only a matter of time before the disorder was fine-tuned into something fit for television. Now she was just waiting for it all to develop, so she could see what Mr. Day had in store for her with some new upcoming reality series he'd been so hush-hush about and, more importantly, so she could hurry afterward to the airport to meet Mason's plane, which was due in just after two o'clock. She smiled, calming and reminding herself why she was here and how much she'd gone through to make it. She'd traveled from the Midwest to New York, pit-stopping in what she'd come to refer to as levels of purgatory, to capture an opportunity such as this, and now that it had presented itself, she was going to own it. No matter what.

"What are you standing there for, man? We got work to do," a guy with a producer badge around his neck asked flippantly, clipboard in his hands. "Let's go!" Charly strained to see the object of the producer's wrath, feeling sorry for whomever he was talking to. She was glad he wasn't snapping at her, because for the life of her, she didn't know how she'd have responded to such a bullying tone. But she knew it wouldn't have been nice.

"Did you hear me, man? I. Said. We. Have. Work. To. Do. Now, c'mon!" he urged, waving the clipboard. "Okay. It's not gonna be my butt on the line ..." He trailed off with an unspoken threat.

Charly looked left and right, hoping that whoever would hurry up. The producer's impatience was making her uncomfortable.

"He seems upset, doesn't he?" a male voice asked from behind, startling her and tickling her eardrums with an English accent.

Charly glanced over her shoulder and nodded to the guy's shadow behind her. Too entertained by the producer to divert her attention all the way, she didn't see his face. "Yeah. But I think that's an understatement," she agreed, quickly turning her glance back to the angry producer, who was reddening by the second. She was sure that in less than a minute the man was going to drag whoever he was yelling at across the floor to wherever he wanted him.

"Hey, Day! Day! Mr. Day?" the producer guy yelled, almost throwing his clipboard in the air. "I thought you said we have a live one. Where is he?"

An irritating, mic-held-too-close-to-the-speakers sound fractured the air, making everyone wince and cover their ears. Suddenly it stopped, then was replaced by a crackling noise, followed by "Testing? One. Two. Testing?" blaring through a bullhorn.

"Charly? Charly?" Mr. Day's voice called from somewhere behind the cameras.

Charly perked up and stood on tiptoe, trying to see past the cameras and crew. She pointed to her chest like she'd forgotten her name. "Me?" she mouthed out of habit. Having what was considered a common male name, she'd learned long ago not to assume someone was talking to her.

"Yes, you, Charly," Mr. Day assured her. "I'm talking to you, and so is Ryan. The man in front of you with the clipboard. He's the producer."

Now her eyes really widened, then locked with the producer's. "Me?" she mouthed again, clutching Marlow in one arm and pointing to her chest again. She didn't understand. Why were they calling her? This time she'd come to watch, not participate. The last time she participated, Mr. Day had run her out and had threatened to tell her dad, and with good reason. She'd popped up and auditioned during a real taping.

The scrumptious male voice behind her laughed. "Oops. Guess you are the man who's pissed off Ryan. I wouldn't want to be in your shoes," he said, his off sounding like awff.

Ryan's eyes saucered wider than Charly's. "You?" he asked incredulously. "All this time I was looking for a he, not a her. And definitely not an it," he said, pointing at Marlow. "Well, same difference. Let's go!" he yelled, walking toward Charly and extending his arm. "Time is money, and we don't have either to waste. Hair and makeup. Wardrobe!" he called out, gently taking Charly by the hand.

She looked at his reddened face, and thought his gentle hold on her was so contradictory. "I don't understand," she said, clasping her hand with Ryan's like she was lost. "Mr. Day sent for me so I can watch. You know, learn? I've been banned ..." She glanced over her shoulder to where the delicious voice had come from, and her eyes took over. The guy with the accent was gorgeous. Handsome, beautiful, cute, and whatever other words could be used to describe a guy who was so fine, he was all of that. She blinked slowly, trying to pull her attention from him, but she couldn't. He was magnetic, attractive, model-tall, and had the perfect build. He was cut like a triathlete, and his muscular build was topped off with delectable biceps. "... and can only watch ... there's no getting in front of the camera for a while. I can only watch ... only watch," she stuttered, repeating her words. She didn't know what to say or do, not after looking at the guy.

"Uh-huh. Tell that to hair and makeup and wardrobe—aka the Gossip Trinity. They love to hear stories ... and spread them too. I, on the other hand, love to see stories. Action. I'm here to make it all happen." His voice was incredibly loud, as if she were across the room and not next to him. He looked at her and smirked. "I don't do excuses, babe. And I don't do dogs. I do production." He stood straight, looking around as if he hadn't been speaking to her. "Someone get this dog. Now!"

"Wait a second. Don't talk to me like that! And definitely don't call Marlow an it! She's a her. Do you hear me?" she began, but before Charly could finish instructing the producer, Ryan, on what he could kiss and how he could kiss it, he looked her up and down, taking her all in. "Suede boots and striped tights while it's warm—trendsetter, huh? Gutsy and edgy." He winked and nodded, in what seemed like approval. "Cute, confident, conflict-worthy, and cutting edge. Charly," he said at the top of his lungs, then handed her off to a group of stylists who she assumed were the Gossip Trinity. "Who knows, Day?" Ryan yelled to Mr. Day. "You may be on to something here with this Ms. Charly St. James. She's quite the character and very expressive too. She wears her feelings on her face—looked at me like You know where you can go! And trust me, the look wasn't directing me to heaven! Ha! Cameras may love her." He shrugged. "Then again, they may not," he said as if Charly weren't right there to hear him.

"What are you talking about?" she asked snidely. "Mr. Day!" she yelled. "Somebody better tell me what's up or I'm walking or swinging fists. The first person that...